


Wedding tasting

by thegodmaker



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, How Do I Tag, Longing, Mutual Pining, Pining, Snippet from a work I will never do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26573230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegodmaker/pseuds/thegodmaker
Summary: "Miriam Amell is as part of Alistair Theirin as his sword and shield, as his Warden's oath, as his lifeblood. To himself, he could admit that he felt more akin to that girl - not girl, not anymore - than he felt to his ancestry. King Maric was far, was not even a memory, whether Miriam Amell was a legend that he saw shaped. And she tasted like a savoriness that he could never remove from his insides."Alistair reminisces about tasting Miriam.
Relationships: Alistair/Amell (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Roderick Gilmore/Female Cousland (implied)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Wedding tasting

When they met, he could never make a connection about the taste that took roots in his mouth, and something else in the world. In the beginning, Alistair would lay down in the makeshift bed and think about it, his glossy eyes observing the Korcari Wilds sparsing out and dying before reaching civilization, trying to seek it out.

It was like a toothache - _and he had a lot of those before when he was a child, never when he grew up. A man wouldn't have toothache for eating too much sugar. And his teeth were fine, thank you very much so._

It was a deep taste that made his mouth so dry, and made him so thirsty, that their water supply would never last a full day, during the beginning of that long year. It obviously never sat well with Morrigan, as most things never did. _"You are such a child! We spend precious time, that we most certainly do not have, to keep fetching and cleaning water because you end our stores! Tis so annoying!"_

And just like with Morrigan's annoying and disrupting tone of voice, like a shrill in his sensitive and dainty ears, _which weren't by any chance the butt of a lot of jokes from the other children at the monastery, he would like to make this known,_ Alistair could remember Miriam Amell's smile, still soft and humourous, that could make his weirdly pointy ears _\- ahem, which wasn't what the children in Bournshire would say, they would say that he had perfectly sized and handsome ears!_

His ears would suddenly feel hot at the sight of her grin. **_"Tis odd indeed!"_ ** Miriam's teasing voice would sound so small, yet so big in that one clearing where they made camp, weary and relentless and young and sad. Miriam's smile tasted the same as that suggestion that rooted itself to his senses.

For a minute Alistair could swear he could feel the breeze, ringing with promises of demise coming from both sides, the wild fields and the tame ones. Alone in the dark retreats of the huge chamber that he was forced into - not his, not yet at least, he wished for simpler times, just like those; being a soldier was manageable enough because he was pliable and with only one thing in mind. Now, in the suffocating walls of the Royal Palace, he can't feel any wind and no promises of demise. Alistair would sometimes humor himself trying to see if he could feel anything.

Those days at the ends and the beginnings of the Korcari Wilds became weeks and months traveling, running away and from their foes, trying to obtain allies, and trying to choose right. And in this time, the young soldier would become acclimated to that taste. Not that Alistair was dense _\- no matter what Zevran and Morrigan would like to say because he knew he was clever. And Wynne always told him so, when she caught him fuming behind the barracks; Wynne was a teacher, and if she said so, it became just true enough for him._ But then it took him a while to make the association between the taste and Miriam Amell.

The hero of Ferelden was a mage, a woman, and a general. Before the night when the archdemon felt, Alistair dreamed that Miriam Amell was Andraste. Walking the steps to Fort Drakon, the young king questioned himself who he was in that fantasy.

It is known that Miriam Amell is as part of Alistair Theirin as his sword and shield, as his Warden's oath, as his lifeblood. To himself, he could admit that he felt more akin to that girl - not girl, not anymore - than he felt to his ancestry. King Maric was far, was not even a memory, whether Miriam Amell was a legend that he saw shaped. And she tastes like a savoriness that he could never remove from his insides.

Alistair tried to make sense of this when he realized the link between this ache, that took the form of a taste, of craving in his mouth, and his companion. It wasn't a specific thing, like a bottle of sweet wine or a sour dwarven ale; it was like a spell that dulled his senses. _Maybe she was a sneaky witch sorceress just like Morrigan. And Flemeth. And all those apostates. But not like Wynne, no, Wynne was nice enough, and remended his shirts and cleaned his socks._ It all sounded cleverer in his head, but bygones should be bygones, and he was losing himself in his memories.

It took time to realize that it was simply a matter that made him attuned to Miriam Amell more than anyone else in the world. It had no reason, no goal, no purpose but to allow him to taste her and her passions, awareness, and sometimes Alistair could swear that he could taste her thoughts. It was a kinship so special and unique, that must surely be the reason why he could still forgive her and love her, even though she practiced forbidden, dark magic, even though she sacrificed a child, even though she let Avernus live and research people, even though... She destroyed a fucking city, for Maker’s sake! Miriam Amell was a hero, a villain, and his general. Seldom Alistair hated himself for still craving her taste, even when it changed, even when the burden of her effects rippled across the nation. Miriam Amell's taste was his axis when he fought, a king kneeling for the chief of his army, and not giving a fucking damn because that was nothing more righteous than her real taste when he kissed in all of her lips, her naked body convulsing and filling his mouth with her addicting aftertaste.

And as their relationship grew from bonds formed where _they were almost dead and I can't feel her breathing oh Maker have mercy please don't let me die don't let her die please sweet Andraste or any other gods I am not feeling very sanctimonious right now_ to friendship and admiration and the taste of her smile in calm afternoons where _Calenhad the mabari (the irony) sat at their feet and no one felt like dying tomorrow, because Zevran "acquired" some sweet tea and Leliana is singing low in her throat, and Sten is showing Wynne how to clean a sword and she is making the right kind of interest noises, and Oghren is telling Shale some shitty story about stones and rocks, and Morrigan is finally sitting with them, making angry faces to Leliana, who is still singing and even found time to braid Miriam's hair, whose laugh and smiles taste like..._ Her smile tastes good, in the back of his throat, and Alistair could swear he never loved anything more in the world. But tastes change and sweet tea can't be their home forever.

 _Maybe it was his fault,_ it's easy to wonder. He let her make choices and the price for her ruling was that she would bear their consequences because they were her decisions. Sweet Miriam Amell with her homely taste became steely Miriam Amell, his general in the making, resolute and stony-faced, but still making him harden with desire. Deep inside him, deeper than the taste that was his urge, he knew that he wasn't the one to take the fall. It was unfair because even though Alistair could still feel Morrigan and see her body, white as alabaster, he knew that Miriam was the one committing the desecration. Or that's how she felt; coming back to her rooms after performing his duty, it was the one and only time he could feel guilt in her taste.

* * *

"Isn't the water getting cold, your Majesty?" came an inquisition, taking King Alistair of his memories.

"Oh," he answered, unsure. Looking up, the monarch saw his valet looking at his pruned face. "Ah. Sure, I guess, of course," Alistair tried answering again, getting up from the washtub, feeling lightheaded.

The royal valet Samuel Vaughn helped his king out of the washtub, which Alistair very much appreciated because he was so out of it that he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings. "Uh, thank you, Samuel." his voice was a bit hoarse, and he wasn't looking at the valet. "Have you any news about her Ladyship Elissa?"

Samuel was expecting the question and didn't even need to lift his head, which was occupied by trying to find a towel for his majesty. Where did the bath attendant put those? "Her Ladyship is getting ready in her rooms, your Majesty. Sir Roderick is in charge of the queen's guard, as you asked, but her Ladyship requested me to recommend you a plan to officialize the guards. I reckon her Ladyship was talking about it with the chamberlain."

Alistair listened closely, sitting in his bed, eyes fixed to the windows. Denerim sounded festive, looked festive, felt festive, smelled festive, and tasted like nothing. "You are dismissed, Samuel. I can get dressed on my own, and thank you for your help" if the request took the elderly valet by surprise, he didn't show. Alistair wasn't looking at him, but he could listen to the sounds of his distancing soft footsteps. Then the door was closed and he could lie down, closing his eyes and breathing slowly.

* * *

The moment of oblivion was lost when that tangy, pungent taste closed up his throat, mollifying his tongue and making Alistair's eyes tear up. He missed Miriam Amell more than he missed himself, and he didn't even have himself anymore.

Alistair didn't make any motions, laying down the bed. His naked body meant nothing because he had already been laid bare to the Chancellor of Ferelden, Arlessa of Amaranthine, Champion of Redcliffe, Warden-Commander of Ferelden, General of the battle of Denerim, Hero of Ferelden, her Lady Miriam Amell. There are days where Alistair sits on his father's throne, trying to rule fair and justly to remove his motherland from the brink of destruction, and all he can think of is Miriam Amell. He repeats her name, her titles, because if he lets himself be free, she wouldn't be Miriam Amell. She would be his love. He never asks himself if she does the same.

"If I seem to recall properly," how pathetic is it to miss the sound of a syllable? "the tradition dictates that the bride is late, and not the groom, your Majesty." her voice sounded small, yet so big, in his large room. "And I happen to know your lovely bride, her Ladyship Elissa Cousland, Lady of Highever is already dressed and ready in her quarters, with her _oh-so-devoted_ Ser Rory as company" Alistair wondered how he tasted to her.

As a novice templar, Alistair never really interacted that much with mages, and if he did, he would mostly interact with the elder ones, much older than him. He wouldn't interact with young mages, with lovely laughs, sweet smiles. Soft Miriam Amell was a heavy blow. Steely ivory Miriam Amell, on the other hand, ruined him.

The mattress moved, and she was laying next to him, not touching, but next enough to make him uneasy. He wished he could taste her mouth. Instead, Alistair looked at her.

Her blue dress was in the style of the moment, practical and simple, as fereldan dresses tended to be. _Was she matching her eyes or the Warden's color?_ He couldn't see her arms, her cuts hid from scrutiny. Her long dark hair was braided, face free from hair strands. It's easy to see her scars and her marks, especially the one across her nose; _he asked her once what it was because it was such a remarkable birthmark, red as blood on her skin, and her eyes sparkled at his question. "It's an emblem of misfortune" Miriam's answer was flowy, like a peal of laughter,_ and the memory makes his heartache. Alistair doesn't know if he can take more heartache today.

Laying side by side, the king naked, and the general dressed, it is a stark contrast for the days they used to lay together.

"I will fuck her thinking of you" it's not a promise, but a threat. His general look at him, cold eyes that have seen too much. Her answer changes the taste in his mouth, now bittersweet and as strong as ever: "So make sure she cums on your cock, your Grace, as I did." His body answered to her sound as a good soldier would. 

Alistair could remember how he mapped her emotions by the changes in the taste, taste that is a piece of him as his own swordhand. He tasted her lust, her anger, her happiness, her despair, her hate, and her love. He met Morrigan's body savoring Miriam in his mouth, seeing her in his head, listening to her posh syllables, smelling her fragrance, and touching another woman's shape.

"There is nothing I would not do for you" she threatens like a promise, and her taste is rich in his mouth. He wonders if _that is what feels to be addicted to lyrium, her magic addicted me, like those addled templars suffocating in the most exquisite taste and just needing another dose, and another, and another, and-_

Miriam gets up from the bed, carefully. She walks to the end of the bed and beckons him closer. The king obeys, his body still damp from his bath. Her hand encloses his hard cock, ready for her, his head wet with the promise that hangers in the taste she left in his mouth, more powerful than everything. "So let me savor you, my liege." the general kneels before her king and tastes him.

_The taste is delightful like an afternoon tea, sweet just as she likes._

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much my first attempt at fanfiction, which is kinda nerve wracking. I tried to get something out of my system, and thought: welllll, isn't this the perfect solution? I always wanted to write something, and I have a need to write; voilá, here it is!
> 
> I'm really hoping for critics and pointers, so thank you if you've read it, and a special thank you if you could take the time to help me improve!


End file.
